The Village that Wasn't There!

I went to stay with an old schoolmate

In the village of Rushing Brooke,

I thought there wouldn’t be much to do

So I took a favourite book,

He said he’d only been there a while

For the cottage rent was cheap,

He’d needed to get away, he said,

But never could get to sleep.

 

His face was haggard, his eyes bloodshot

His hands would tremble and shake,

He said it was close to a fortnight since

He’d started to lie awake,

‘I get to the point I’m drifting off

When I hear that terrible knell,

A long slow tolling invades my sleep

From the church that has no bell.’

 

We sat up talking ‘til one o’clock

Then I made my way to bed,

But nothing invaded my sleep that night,

‘It won’t at first,’ he said.

‘There’s something wanders the street outside

In the hours before the dawn,

Clad in a cowl, or a hooded cloak

But it’s gone before the morn.’

 

From all that I saw of Rushing Brooke

The cottages were quaint,

They certainly had a timeless look,

Could do with a coat of paint.

The roads were rough with a pebbled look

But I saw no folk about,

I passed the Smithy and Fodder store

But the Blacksmith, he was out.

 

We walked on over to see the church

That was grim, and overgrown,

There’d not been a single service there

Since the Roundheads stormed the town,

But weeds grew up in the vestry, there

Were signs of an ancient fire,

And looking up we could see a space

Right under the old church spire.

 

‘That was the space they hung the bell

But the bell has long been gone,

The Roundheads carried it off, they say,

So it couldn’t toll for Rome.

The bell had tolled for the death of Charles

As his head fell under the axe,

The soldiers came for revenge in force

In one of their brute attacks.’

 

I kept him company every night

But I had to get some sleep,

For days I’d wake and I’d find him still

Awake in a crumpled heap.

I woke one time and I saw him stare

Through the window, into the night,

For there was a ghostly cloak and cowl,

It gave me a sudden fright.

 

And that’s when I heard the tolling bell

For the first time, that he’d said,

The bell from the church, that wasn’t there

Was tolling in my head,

I lay awake ‘til the sun came up,

Went out to greet the day,

But there the village had tumbled down,

Had long since gone away.

 

Only the marks of ancient roads,

Foundations that had stood,

There wasn’t a cottage left out there

Just an encroaching wood,

The church was standing among the trees

And our cottage, cracked and scarred,

Half of the roof was missing, and

The chimney lay in the yard.

 

We hurried away to the nearest town

And found an old-style Inn,

My friend had fallen asleep within

A moment of checking in,

He slept and he slept for two whole days

While I asked about the town,

‘What of the village of Rushing Brooke?’

But all that they did was frown.

 

The wife of the keeper of the Inn

Was tidying my room,

I asked her the same old question as

She worked there in the gloom,

‘I wouldn’t go near to Rushing Brooke

Not now, for a thousand pound,

That’s where the soldiers stole the bell

And mowed the villagers down.’

 

‘They say as the place is haunted by

The figure of a monk,

They burnt him alive inside the church

As he tolled the bell by the font.

He lived in a little cottage there,

The only one that stands,

I’ve heard some tell that they’ve heard the bell

And seen him, walk in the grounds.’

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Valentine]

Eerie and a bit spooky, another old time tale that you write so well. Please keep them coming..Kathie

[Woody]

a deliciously creepy tale, this one. just as good as the others.
I enjoyed the read as usual, David.

[Marie]

This one actually gave me goose bumps...just thinking of that monk tolling a ghostly bell.


A nice piece of history too...

[TPK Stories]

Another excellent haunting tale... :-)